


as if death itself was undone

by mishcollin



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-03
Updated: 2013-06-03
Packaged: 2017-12-13 20:06:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/828314
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mishcollin/pseuds/mishcollin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's been five years, and Jimmy Novak's daughter has a few choice words for a fallen angel.</p>
            </blockquote>





	as if death itself was undone

Castiel doesn’t mind getting groceries. There’s something almost therapeutic about it, going through the aisles and ticking things off a list. Lists are easy, their design is simple and straightforward, something he finds mortal life isn’t by any stretch of the imagination.

So he likes the quiet strategy of weaving through aisles, crossing things off as a mark of finite completion. Grocery shopping is artistic, in a way.

Life doesn’t have checkboxes, just complicated messes of emotion, chance, and human intimacy.

And choice, he thinks as he watches the cashier slide his groceries under the scanner. There’s always choice. Whenever Castiel is stripped of his certainties, he at least remembers that.

A loud, shattering clatter causes both Castiel and the cashier to glance up—the cashier in expectant irritation, Castiel in curiosity. When he turns, he finds a slim, blond girl staring at him with wide, watery eyes, her skin moon-like in its pallor. Her groceries are scattered on the floor, and milk from a broken bottle leaks slowly from one of the plastic bags.

Castiel stares at the girl with a sudden flash of emotion, a ghost of a memory that’s not his, almost like a phantom limb of sentiment. He can’t, for the life of him, place the emotion, or even where he’s seen the girl before.

The next word from her mouth quickly jogs his memory.

“D-Dad?”

Castiel stares at her a moment more, thinking she must be mistaken. But then she steps closer, her eyes wide and almost hollow, and Castiel remembers her in a flash of clarity.

Five years have changed Claire Novak. Her face, once rounded and soft with youth, is now angled into cheekbones that he recognizes in his own face, and her eyes are sharp and world-weary. Her once-long, wavy hair is cropped into a flaxen bob, curling softly around her ears.

“You’re not him,” she whispers, searching Castiel’s eyes, and the lines of her face harden. “ _Where is he?_ ”

“You’re Claire Novak,” Castiel says in amazement, still trying to catch up.

“And you’re not an angel anymore, so where is my father?” The last four words are bit out, harsh and imperative, nothing like the hushed, childlike cadences in which she once spoke.

“How did you know that?” Castiel asks, astonished. “That I’m no longer an angel?”

Claire sighs, quick and impatient. “I can _see_ angels, I can see their faces. Vessel, remember?”

“You can perceive my true visage,” Castiel remembers, gazing at the girl with bemusement.

“Um, yeah. And you’re not angel, but you’re not my dad, either. So where the hell is he?”

“Um…” says the cashier from behind Castiel. “Am I being punked or something? Because the store has a policy that—”

Claire shoots him a withering look so cutting that the cashier falls into unsettled silence.

“Grab your stuff,” Claire tells Castiel. “We need to talk.”

Castiel, still a little bit behind the whole scene—Claire Novak, here, in Denver? It doesn’t make sense—throws down a 50-dollar bill, collects his groceries in the cart, and follows Claire out of the store.

“Care to explain why you’re no longer an angel but are still riding around in my dad’s skin?” Claire asks once they’re out the door, and her words are so sharp that Castiel winces.

“I fell,” Castiel says.

“I figured that much.”

“It wasn’t intentional.”

“And my father?” Claire asks, stopping in her tracks, and her voice, for a moment, is so heartbreakingly hopeful and young that Castiel is reminded of her prior gentleness, the warm and innocent selflessness he’d felt in her soul when he’d taken her as a vessel, all those years ago. Buried under what he guesses are years and layers of bitterness, fear, and lost hope.

“It’s not exactly clear—” Castiel begins, trying to find placating and possibly evasive words, but Claire interrupts, “Don’t try to bullshit me, Castiel. I know you better than you think.”

Castiel waits for her to explain, and Claire glances away from him, her short hair ruffling in the wind.

“You wouldn’t know what it’s like, having an angel inside of you,” Claire says after a moment of gathering her thoughts. “But it’s not something you exactly _bounce back_ from. For months after you left, I could still hear the echoes of your grace in my head, ringing in my skull. I could hear voices talking to me, telling me things about the Winchesters, the angels, the freaking devil. I thought I was going insane. My mom had me checked out and everything. Nothing helped; not alcohol or drugs or treatment or anything.”

Castiel winces in shock to think of someone Claire’s age abusing herself in that way, and for the sake of his leftover mess, no less.

“I’m sorry, Claire,” Castiel tries, “I had no idea—”

“Whatever, Castiel. You can apologize till you’re blue in the face but it won’t bring my dad back.” Her eyes flick to his, accusatory and bracingly sad. “My point is: in those moments when you were in me, I got a glimpse as to how your clock ticks. Your dishonesty, your fear, your pain, your conflict—I saw all of it. So yeah, it’s gonna be a bit harder to bullshit me. Sorry. So tell it to me straight.”

Castiel nods. Claire searches his face for a long moment, then glances away, looking discomfited.

“It’s like talking to a fucking ghost,” she mutters, slipping her hands over her closed eyes in a moment of vulnerability. “Jesus.”

“Claire,” Castiel says, softly, “I’m so sorry to tell you this, truly I am, but—”

“But my dad’s dead,” Claire says, her voice flat and her hands still shielding her eyes. “Yeah. Don’t know why I hoped otherwise.”

“His soul rests in the fields of the Lord.” Castiel keeps his voice soft even though he knows it’s an empty consolation. He knows the scope of human grief. Words don’t fill it; they just get lost in the noise of it all.

“Save it. Just tell me what happened to him.”

“Raphael killed us, your father and me,” Castiel says. “Before the apocalypse began.”

Claire peeks out from her hands and stares at Castiel a good, long moment. “And you survived?”

“Yes. For some reason…” Castiel sighs and shifts his hands uncomfortably on the metal handle of the grocery cart. “I can’t die. God won’t let me. I’ve been killed three times now, and each time I’ve been brought back.”

“You’re literally wearing my father’s corpse,” Claire says in unmasked disgust. “At least you got rid of the goddamn trenchcoat. ‘Macabre’ wouldn’t even cover it if you’d kept it around.”

“Yes,” Castiel replies with an uncomfortable laugh. Claire doesn’t need to know the significance of that coat, still hung up in the bunker, faded with water damage, blood, and time. The history in the seams that can't be washed out no matter how many times he's fixed it with angelic grace, or how many times he's shoved the coat through the washer convinced there was a stain on it that wasn’t there.

“I might be sick to my stomach,” Claire mutters, still refusing to look at him.

“Would you like me to leave?”

“Not yet. Walk back to my car with me.”

With a loud clatter of the cart’s wheels against the curb, Castiel follows after her again, watching the rigid, almost defensive way Claire holds herself, as though poised for a potential attack.

Claire’s car is a beat-up old thing, a huge, cracked dent in the bender and half of the back window missing. Castiel doesn’t recognize the model, although he knows Dean would.

“I left all my groceries inside,” Claire says to herself. “I guess seeing your dead dad in the flesh tends to weigh on the mind.”

Castiel is markedly uncomfortable with Claire’s repeated jabs, although he knows she’s justified in her anger and her disgust.

“I am a person, Claire,” Castiel says quietly, knowing it’ll exacerbate her anger but wanting to say it anyway.

“Yeah, you’re _just_ a person. A person who hopped into my dad’s body, essentially kicked him out of it, and is now inhabiting him for good. Tell me where I should find solace in all this,” Claire snaps, unlocking the trunk and pulling up the lid.

Castiel’s hands slip from the cart in shock when he sees the array of guns, knives, hexbags, and other trinkets that fill the capacity of Claire’s cramped trunk, but without a second glance, Claire tosses her messenger bag in it and slams the lid shut without so much a look in Castiel’s direction.

“Claire,” Castiel says, his voice slightly strangled, “are you a hunter?”

“What do you care?” Claire asks, locking the trunk and leaning against the car in a way that’s deceptively combative.

“You—” What can he say? _You’re so young?_ Claire would bristle at that, even if she can’t be more than seventeen. _You have so much left outside hunting?_ No hunter wants to hear that.

“You,” Castiel tries again. Claire raises her eyebrows and crosses her arms, waiting for the rebuttal. “Your parents wouldn’t want you hunting,” Castiel says finally. “Your mom can’t want this way of life for you, no parent would.”

Claire snaps her head back and laughs so bitterly that Castiel’s stomach churns.

“My mom’s dead, Castiel,” Claire says with a smile that deadens rather than warms her eyes. “A demon got her three years ago. It was looking for you, actually. Thought it could extract information on your whereabouts through her and didn’t bother to let her live.”

Castiel feels physically sick. He braces himself on the side of the car, breathing heavily as Claire watches him.

“Amelia Novak is dead?” Castiel asks in confirmation.

“Yeah.”

That phantom-limb feeling floods back into him like a cold current. Grief, fury, loss, an _ache_ that he can’t uncramp. He remembers Jimmy’s undying devotion to his wife, the human and unbridled fierceness of his love for her, and feels nauseous all over again.

“Are you okay?” Claire asks, the uneasy tone of her voice revealing her discomfort with Castiel’s reaction. “You barely even knew her.”

“I know,” Castiel says. “But sometimes I feel your father is still with me after all. Like his ghost is haunting my body. I feel…” He struggles to place words on it. “I feel...as he would have felt. And Jimmy loved you and Amelia very much, Claire.”

Claire visibly swallows, and for a moment it seems like her cold mask is cracked before it hardens again like clay before his eyes. She jolts up from the car and leans over to look at Castiel in the eye, dark and menacing.

“Don’t talk about my father like that,” she says. “If he’s gone, he’s _gone_. None of this ‘you have to let it linger’ crap. Don't--don't you dare tell me my father may still be in there somewhere.” The ire from her voice splinters suddenly, and she says, softly, “I don’t think I’ll live through that.”

Castiel stares at her and suddenly understands on a level that can’t be worded. He nods.

“I’m sorry, Claire. For everything. I know how much you must hate me. The very idea of me must be repulsive to you. And I’m sorry if you feel anything I say is insensitive. Please understand that I’m not…equipped to handle such matters with the proper delicacy,” Castiel says, choosing his words carefully. “And for that I’m sorry.”

Claire gazes at him a long moment without saying a word. Then her mouth quirks slightly and she tilts her head in a painfully familiar kind of way. “You know what gets me, Castiel? What gets me the most? I don’t hate you. I _can’t_ hate you.”

“Why not?” Castiel asks in surprise. “I would.”

“Because…even though it was only a few minutes, we were one person. I felt what you felt, saw things through some kind of angelic kaleidoscope. I saw into the very heart of you, or whatever it is angels have. And you were good. You were misguided, sure, but you were good, and you loved when you knew you shouldn’t, and you know what? I can’t hate that, as much as I tried, and believe me, I tried. And I know my father couldn’t either.”

“I miss him, sometimes,” Castiel whispers, knowing he’s steering into very dangerous waters. “I miss Jimmy occasionally. He was a very good man, one of the best I ever knew.”

Claire nods and looks quickly away, as if trying to hide her face from him.

“I miss him too,” she says in a low, broken voice. “Every damn day. But at least I know he’s been laid to rest, or whatever, and not stuck inside you screaming and miserable. I can tell you that it’s not fun on the human side.”

“You must have hated it.” Castiel sighs.

“No, actually,” Claire says, and Castiel jerks his head up in surprise only to see her watching him pensively. “I didn’t hate it. It felt righteous. It felt _good_. It was like some part of me that had been missing had been found. Like I was destined to be a vessel. Then you ripped that away from me, and I felt empty for years. I still do. Like a drained hose or something. You tore a hole in me that I couldn’t even explain, let alone fill up again.”

Castiel doesn’t know what to say to this.

“As much as I try to detest you, Castiel, as much as your very being should repel me, I miss you,” Claire says. “In a way I can’t properly explain.”

“Humans are not meant to experience the grace of angels firsthand, on a corporeal level,” Castiel says. “None of the feelings you have toward me, I imagine, will ever make coherent sense, because they aren’t meant to exist.”

Claire nods curtly, as though this makes sense to her. “Humans and angels just aren’t meant to be, eh? Square peg, round hole?”

“Precisely.”

“I guess that explains why your giant crush on Dean was causing you so much turmoil,” Claire says with a small grin.

Castiel stares at her, taken aback. “I do not have any sort of—what was that? _Crush?_ ”

“Oh, nothing,” Claire says, her voice mock-innocent and her eyes disturbingly and almost playfully predatory. “It’s just that was some bond you had going, last time I checked in on your brain.”

“Dean and I do share a profound bond,” Castiel says uncertainly, not comfortable with where the conversation is headed.

“Remember, Cas, I saw into your soul the same way you saw into mine. That was a lot of love for just one human being.”

Castiel says nothing and shuffles his feet.

“No, it’s fascinating to me, you know?” Claire says, gazing out over the scattered cars across the parking lot. “Human and an angel, not even meant to cross paths, yet you and Dean fucked the system, didn’t you? You had some weird connection from the get-go. I saw that much, when I was with you. You were willing to give up everything for him, the same way my dad was for my mom and me.”

Castiel wets his lips and intertwines his fingers. Unclasps them. Shuffles again nervously.

“It’s fine, Castiel, honestly. You don’t need to look so uncomfortable. That amount of love, I’ve never experienced it firsthand and I’ve never forgotten it. It was actually the first thing that convinced me that I couldn’t hate you. Because you and my dad, you were similar in a lot of ways.”

“I’d like to think that,” Castiel says in a low voice. “But your father was a great man. A hero and a martyr.” Castiel softly thunks his forehead against his forearms, braced on the car roof. “I break everything I touch.”

“Well, don’t forget to invite me to your pity-party,” Claire says, and Castiel looks up in surprise. Upon catching his bewildered look, she rolls her eyes and adds, “I mean, come on, Castiel. You can feel sorry for yourself for being a fuck-up all day but it won’t change a damn thing. Think of it this way; you’re alive, my dad isn’t. Isn’t that enough?”

Castiel nods slowly, thinking over Claire’s words.

“Are you still with Dean and his brother?”

Castiel doesn’t answer, just nods again.

“That’s one thing left unbroken, isn’t it?” Claire asks. “I mean, seriously, you haven’t fucked up the most important thing you have yet. Right?”

“I’ve fucked it up plenty of times,” Castiel says with a sad, reminiscent smile. “But somehow, things always stitch themselves together again.”

Claire heaves a deep, bone-weary sigh. “Here I am, consoling an ex-angel using my dead father as a meat-puppet on his self-esteem issues. I should write a book or something.”

“I’d buy it,” Castiel says with a tiny smile, and Claire looks to him almost warmly. Almost.

“Yeah, well,” Claire says, rounding the front of the car. “I’m off to see the Wizard. Do you have a phone?”

Castiel nods and fishes it out of his pocket, handing it to her.

“Against my better judgment, I’m putting my phone number in here. Stay in touch or something, I don’t know.”

Castiel hums in affirmation and says, “Thank you, Claire. And I’m sorry, for everything.”

Claire looks at him for a long time, something broken and lost in her eyes, and then she climbs into the front seat.

“And Claire?” Castiel asks, bending a little so he can talk to her through the cracked window. “Please stop hunting.”

Claire smiles, wryly. “Not a chance.” She starts the car.

“It’s a dangerous and crooked path and it only ends in sadness and death. Please, Claire, I’m begging you.”

“I don’t have to listen to you,” Claire says with a slightly lopsided smile. “You’re not my dad.” And she peels out of the parking spot, leaving Castiel alone with a cart full of groceries and a strange emptiness inside him.

**Author's Note:**

> The title is from Florence + the Machine's "Blinding."


End file.
